Ginger with a Chance of Freckles
by Wellingtonboots
Summary: Sometimes it takes an extraordinary event to make two people fall in love - in John and Sherlock's case it takes an extraordinary pilot: Sherringford "I-go-by-Martin-Crieff-now" Holmes.
1. Meet Martin S Crieff

**Title:** Ginger with a Chance of Freckles - a Sherlock/Cabin Pressure cross

**Summary:**

_"Why did you never tell me about Martin?" demanded John gesturing to the exhausted pilot sleeping on their sofa._

_"I talk about him all the time," snapped Sherlock, "I even named the skull after my little brother."_

Life, love and sibling rivalries of three unique brothers: Mycroft, Sherlock and Sherringford "I-go-by-Martin-Crieff-now" Holmes.

**Pairings:** Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea, Martin/Molly

**Rating**:PG-13

**Genre**: Humour/Romance

**Warnings:** Otters in the flight deck, rabbits of negative euphoria, disaster prone pilots. If you don't know what is going on perform a fish-oboe-check.

**AN: You do not have to know anything about Cabin Pressure to enjoy this story. It's actually a sweet, some what cracky story about the beginnings of Sherlock and John's romance.**

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**Chapter 1: Meet Martin S. Crieff**

When Sherringford decided to change his name to Martin Crieff, Lady Salisbury was devastated. Her Ladyship, known affectionately as Mummy to her beloved sons, had chosen all their names herself.

"I love my name mother," he had said hesitantly, "but I just don't want to live with the burden of bring Sherringford Holmes anymore."

When Sherringford declared he did not want a penny of the trust fund Robert Holmes, the Marquise of Salisbury, had laid aside for his youngest son, his Lordship had difficulty keeping his eyebrows still.

"I can earn my own way in the world," stuttered Sherringford, "you'll see,"

When Sherringford finally passed his pilot's qualification, his parents wanted to throw a garden party to mark the grand occasion but Martin S. Crieff decided to spend it with just his family.

"The four of you are all I really need," he said, feeling as if nothing in the world could drag him down from the heady height of euphoria, until he popped open the champagne and knocked himself out with the cork.

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**Chapter 2: Travelling Lemon**

When John Watson trailed up the stairs to the living room with a bag of shopping in one hand and The Guardian in the other, he expected to see Sherlock sprawl across the sofa. However he did not expect to see the detective sprawl across the sofa dressed as an airline pilot with a large lemon taped to the top of his hat.

"Oh hello, John," said Sherlock, sounding far too happy to see his flatmate.

"What on earth have you been smoking?" asked John immediately. He mentally listed all the hallucinogenic drugs that he had found in the flat over the last week and cursed himself for not removing them all when he had the chance.

"Oh I don't smoke," replied Sherlock chirpily, "I leave that to Sherlock,"

John fixed his flatmate with his most intimidating glare whilst he visually checked the detective for any signs of impending medical emergency. Sherlock's pupils appeared to be the same size but his general cheerfulness despite the lack of gruesome murders was a sure sign that Sherlock had managed to dope himself with something unsavoury.

"Right," snapped John, dropping the food and rolling up his sleeves with the unwavering confidence expected of all good army surgeons, "you – my bed - now,"

"Um...I'm not sure that's...um ...entirely appropriate," stammered Sherlock, "given that you and my brother are...you know...um...together."

Having spent seven years dealing with shell-shocked soldiers and a miriade of other mental disorders in Afghanistan, John believed he had heard every concievable delusion. However the suggestion that he was some how romantically involved with _Mycroft Holmes _belonged to a new magnitude of craziness.

"You've really lost it, haven't you?" groaned John,

"Oh – sorry, I just thought – well you've known each other so long and I know how he finds it difficult to tell me people that he like them but I thought he might have told you already, which is why you're still here...oh, God, I'm babbling,"

"Really?" said John with enough sarcasm to demolish an entire squad of new recruits, "I would never have guessed,"

"But he does like you though," continued Sherlock brightly, "he's in love, I can see it. All those times you guys have gone out together – he's told me all about it!"

"Right," grumbled John as he tried to decide on the best way to approach his highly unstable and utterly delusional flatmate, "I suppose the numerous times Mycroft has kidnapped me directly off the street is simply the Holmes' version of a romantic gesture?"

Sherlock looked completely flabbergasted at his response. The expression was so at odds with his usually stoic and superior character that John was sorely tempted to take a picture and send it to the entire Metropolitan Police. However, it was probably best not to remind the police that Sherlock enjoyed experimenting with illegal substances between cases.

"M-mycroft?"

"Yes, your endearingly overprotective, pathologically controlling, creepy sod of a brother. Now are you going to get off the couch or do I have to restrain you like last time?"

"No-," protested Sherlock rather feebly, "this isn't what -,"

Sherlock's suddenly undesicive nature was an improvement on his usual oppositional nature and John saw this a brilliant opportunity to brow-beat the detective into following his orders.

"Okay, genius," said John impatiently, "either get your butt into bed – not _your_ bed, it's covered in body parts, _my bed_ – or I will ring Mycroft and inform him of his apparently undying love for me."

Suddenly, impossibly, Sherlock's voice floated up the stairs with its usual clipped impatience:

"John – Mycroft is not gay, I physically disproved that hypothesis years ago."

Turning around like a comically confused cartoon character, John almost stepped straight into the tall looming figure of the world's only consulting detective.

"Sherlock?" he asked uncertainly.

"Sherringford," replied the detective. John assumed he was sarcastically referring to the skull that currently adorned their mantelpiece.

"I go by Martin Crieff now!" snapped Sherlock's doppelganger, completely out of the blue.

"Whatever," muttered Sherlock with an air of supreme disinterest as he threw his scarf onto the coat stand.

"What – so – wait...who is this guy sitting on _my_ sofa?" demanded John angrily.

"I – I thought you already knew," muttered the man-who-went-by-Martin-Crieff-now, "I thought you had agreed with Sherlock to let me stay a few nights at your flat. You didn't seem surprised to see me..."

"I thought you were Sherlock," replied John, feeling that he was currently missing something very important.

"What? Seriously?" said Sherlock, sounding both amused and derisive, "why would I be dressed as a pilot?"

"Captain!" interjected Martin Crieff angrily, "I'm the Captain now."

"I don't know! I thought you'd breathed in too many hallucinogenic fumes again," snapped John, looking wildly from the real Sherlock to his oddly attired double.

"You see but you don't observe," said Sherlock as he flopped down onto the sofa beside Martin Crieff, "Sherry has freckles, his eyes are three millimetres further apart than mine and he is five year younger than I am. Surely even an idiot would be able to see the difference."

"So who is he?" demanded John. The detective rolled his eyes dramatically and then fixed John with an expression of pure disappointment but didn't move to introduce the mysterious pilot - _Captain -_ Martin Crieff.

"I'm Sherlock's brother, Martin," said the pilot as he cheerfully extended his hand. John politely shook Martin's hand with a mixture of astonisment and curiosity.

"Nice to meet you, Martin," he muttered, "sorry about the abuse when we first met, I honestly thought -,"

"Oh don't worry about it, some people always get us mixed up. Mummy used to call us the fake twins and it would have worked if I'm not ginger and Sherlock isn't five years older. I hope I'm not trespassing – Sherlock said it was okay for me to stay here for a couple of night until we fly our customer back to Riyadh. I really didn't want to stay in the hotel Coralyn booked us, I looked it up on Tripadvisor and someone had been bitten by rats there and then someone else had found pubic hair in the sheets -,"

"Sherry, you're babbling," snapped Sherlock, "stop trying to make a good impression, John _likes _you."

John had to agree with Sherlock's deduction. He did like the bumbling, cheerful and over-talkative Martin Crieff. This man was nothing like Sherlock or Mycroft; Martin seemed positively _normal _if a little unsure of himself.

"You're Martin Crieff, formally known as Sherringford Holmes," said John smiling, "and am I right in thinking that you are not on drugs,"

"Yep – yep – that's right,"

"So why do you have a lemon taped to your hat?" asked John curiously.

"What?"

Martin craned his head backwards to get a view of the lemon, lost his balance and tumbled over the edge of the armrest. There was a nasty splat as the lemon collided with floor under the full weight of Martin's upper body. Sherlock didn't even bat an eyelid.

"Well," muttered Martin from his upside down position on the floor with his legs still dangling over the armrest, "at least I found the travelling lemon."

John thought it better not to ask.

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**AN: For those of you who would like to see the cover art for this story: you can read the story it at Archive of Our Own 3 under wellingtonboots. **

**Please leave your reviews! Feedback is really important to all writers - and especially to me :)**


	2. Big Brother and Even Bigger Brother

**Chapter 3: Big Brother and Even Bigger Brother**

The "travelling lemon" was squished beyond repair but there was a pleasant citrus aroma slowly spreading through the living room, helping to mask the smell of half cooked eyeballs. Sherlock was nonchalantly making Martin coffee – _"I want coffee too, John,"_ - whilst the pilot fussed over his sodden hat.

Martin was indeed ginger – very ginger - and if John looked closely enough he could almost see faint freckles adorning the pilot's pale features. Personality wise, John could not believe that Martin Crieff was related to Sherlock Holmes. They were polar opposites in every respect: where Sherlock was cool and confident, Martin was bumbling and unsure. Even having spent only half an hour with the man, John realised Martin had a deep yearning for approval that Sherlock and Mycroft simply expected as their due.

Sherlock busied himself preparing coffee and biscuits in the kitchen, whilst John chatted amiably with Martin. The detective seemed perfectly content to perform this particular domestic chore despite refusing to make any drinks when only John was around. It didn't take Holmesian powers of observation to see Sherlock's poorly disguised affection for Martin.

However their peaceful domestic arrangement fell apart when Mycroft Holmes let himself into the flat, unannounced, and strolled straight into the living room as if he owned the place.

"Martin," said Mycroft sounding, for the first time in John's hearing, genuinely happy to see another human being. However the feeling wasn't mutual: Martin looked less than impressed by his eldest brother's presence.

"I know Sherlock hasn't bothered feeding you," continued Mycroft without acknowledging anyone else's presence, "I've got a table booked for us at the Ivy; I know how much you like the truffles."

John stared inquisitively at the fumbling pilot who looked like he wanted to retort but couldn't find the courage to do so.

"I don't like the truffles anymore," snapped Martin after several seconds of incoherent grumbling noises.

"Well, I know that you still cannot resist their Peach Melba," replied Mycroft jovially.

To John's surprise, Mycroft calmly stepped passed him and pulled Martin to his feet. In a gesture both efficient and tender, Mycroft straighten out his brother's uniform and produced from his leather briefcase a new pilot's cap – much more tastefully decorated than the original.

"I bought you a present, as congratulations on becoming an airline captain," said Mycroft softly.

Martin's face instantly changed from disgruntled sibling to utterly adoring younger brother.

"It's brilliant," he said beaming.

"Put it on and we'll go to dinner," suggested Mycroft indulgently.

"Don't do it!" snapped Sherlock suddenly lurching out of the kitchen with Martin's coffee in one hand and a knife in the other, "you'll never get away from him again. You'll have to stay with Mycroft for the next _three_ days."

Sherlock made the idea sound like an extended sentence in Guantanamo Bay but John thought dinner at a posh restaurant and living in a luxurious London townhouse was worth paying the price of Mycroft's company.

"No -," said Martin sounding rather unsure, "I'll make my way back to Baker Street afterwards..."

"Now, Martin," said Mycroft, sounding very much like a stern father, "As you can see, Sherlock and John do not have much room in their flat. You don't want to be a burden to them, do you?"

"Stop manipulating him," snarled Sherlock, "Sherry is old enough to stay where he wants and he _wants_ to stay with me."

"And sleep on your...sofa?" asked Mycroft gesturing delicately to the well worn and much stained couch.

"In my bed, it's a double," snapped Sherlock immediately.

Mycroft's expression changed from mild disdain to what John could only describe as a cultured sneer.

"Your bed," replied Mycroft tapping his umbrella against the closed door, "is currently covered with plastic bags full of human remains,"

John really didn't want to know how Mycroft discovered this particular fact without even setting foot behind the firmly shut door to Sherlock's room, though he did make a mental note to check the entire flat for hidden cameras once Mycroft was safely out of the building.

"I am _going _to move them," hissed Sherlock through gritted teeth.

Martin, the smallest Holmes, was clutching his new pilot's hat and looking decidedly distressed as he gazed from one brother to the other. John felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man caught in the middle of this embittered feud. When an unstoppable force meets an unmoveable object, there isn't much room for anyone trapped in middle.

"Look guys – seriously if you're going to argue I'll go back and stay at the Holiday Inn," stuttered Martin.

"No!" shouted Sherlock and Mycroft in unison. Martin curled back like a frightened hedgehog at their outburst causing identical expressions of regret to blossom across his brothers' features.

"You're hardly ever here, Martin," said Mycroft soothingly, "I just want to spend some time with you."

"I've already made you coffee," said Sherlock gently holding out the cup of steaming brown liquid.

With the combined force of the two cleverest minds in the country bearing down on him, Martin whimpered and sat back down the sofa.

"Why don't we all go to dinner at the Ivy?" suggested Mycroft, diplomatically, "John? It would save you the hassle of cooking,"

"Oh now you decided to acknowledge my existence," replied John sarcastically, "I feel honoured."

"No-one is going to dinner with you," snapped Sherlock, suddenly reverting back to his usual acrid personality, "John is going to make beef casserole for us."

John glared at Sherlock and wondered just when the detective had started presuming John's domestic services were wholly for his benefit. John did make a lot of meals which Sherlock just happened to end up eating but he didn't cook _for_ Sherlock.

"You know Mycroft's right – I would like to eat at the Ivy. If you don't want to come Sherlock, you can microwave some eyeballs for dinner."

Without another word, John grabbed his coat and headed out to the luxurious black Rolls-Royce waiting silently outside the front door. A uniformed chauffeur diffidently opened the passenger door for him.

"_Well, there are definitely perks to having Martin Crieff around_," thought John as he settled into the polished leather seats, _"Mycroft would never kidnapped me in such a nice car!"_

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_AN: _

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